


Do it For the Vine

by SonoSvegliato



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AUs i don't know what to do with, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Has So Many Kids: the saga, Bruce Wayne Tries, Bruce needs an aspirin, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Dick is a Noodle, Disaster, Drabble Collection, Duke Thomas Deserves Love, Duke only wishes for peace, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen, Jason is a Slightly Bigger Little Shit, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Slice of Life, Tim Drake Has No Spleen, one man's trash is another man's treasure, or a flying F, that's what these chapters are, there will be no peace for duke nor will there be any regrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonoSvegliato/pseuds/SonoSvegliato
Summary: The Batfamily and Trouble were practically sewn in the stars. Duke wants off the ride.(Duke is not allowed off the ride).A series of drabbles. Hell's Merry-go-Round never stops, after all.(Duke seriously wants off the ride.)
Relationships: Duke/The Sweet Release of Death
Comments: 46
Kudos: 353





	1. Mosquito

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine is dragging on, and I've seen some funny Tumblr posts about how well the Bats would fare during the pandemic. I don't plan on quarantine being the theme though because I think the lot of us are tired of it. But most of us are stuck on our computers, so I hope this entertains you! Plan on irregular updates. The muse strikes when she likes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason enjoys terrorizing Damian. Dick enters the scene.

“Did you just lick me?” Jason asks, bewildered. He stops trying to pat the demon on the head, looking at his arm incredulously. “You did. You  _ licked  _ me.”

“No,” Damian snarls. “I tried to bite you.”

“How is that  _ any  _ better?”

Damian bares his teeth, and Jason takes the opportunity to swat his hair. Damian lunges for him, spitting like a cat, and while Jason thinks about holding him by the scruff, he lets himself be bowled to the mats.

“Ha! Regret it now, you -- You’re suffocating me!” Damian cries. “Todd, you imff--”

“Jason?” Dick calls, coming down the stairs. He stops at the last one and puts his hands on his hips. Jason thinks he’s gonna lecture him, and if he does that then Big Bird’s gonna get squashed.

But Dick only asks, “Have you seen Damian anywhere?”

Damian kicks furiously under Jason. Jason smiles.

“Can’t say I have, Dickie. Can’t say I have.”

Damian screeches into the mats.

Dick twists a finger in his ear and frowns. “Did you hear something?”

When Damian kicks with new fervor, Jason takes the chance to swat at his leg and remark, “Yeah. Kind of, like...this whining sound?” He tilts his head and pats his ear. “Could be my tinnitus.”

“No, no,” Dick says. “I hear it too. It must be --”

Damian scoots a little bit out from under Jason’s butt. “Grayson, help me!”

“--a mosquito.”

_ “Grayson!” _

Dick shrugs. “A bat will get it.”

“Grayson. Grayson, I am  _ not  _ a mosquito. Grayson.  _ Grayson, come to my aid or so help me --” _

Dick walks forward. “What are you doing down here on the mats?”

Jason sits back on his hands. Damian growls. “Thought I’d wait for you. Get some ground fighting in.”

“Father hates groundfighting,” Damian protests. “We make ourselves unnecessarily vulnerable. Grayson, don’t listen to anything this halfwit says and get him  _ off of me!” _

Jason holds out his hands. “Come’re, Blue.”

Dick smiles and as he approaches the mats takes his hands away from his hips, holding them out in front of him. “Are you sure you want to challenge me?”

“Are you sure you want to take me?” Jason retorts. Dick feints left with a laugh, and Damian tries to grab his legs like a creature from a hellpit. Dick stays just out of reach of Damian’s fingers, but not from Jason’s feet. Jason catches his ankle and flips. Dick doesn’t fight the fall -- he never does -- but goes down with as gracefully as he can, twisting so that his foot hooks around Jason’s neck. They lock, and Damian yells all sorts of obscenities -- Jason is pretty sure half of them are in Arabic, and the other half Parseltongue. 

Dick grabs hold of Jason’s foot. 

_ “No,”  _ Jason orders. He shakes his finger at Dick as if he’s a dog -- not a far off comparison. (Jason sometimes wishes he had a dog whistle.) “Dick. I want you to think about what you’re doing.”

“What?” Dick asks innocently.

Jason tries jerking his foot away. Dick holds fast. 

“This is war,” Jason says.

“Ticklish, Jay Bird?” Dick asks, and taps his fingers in the arch of Jason’s foot. Jason grunts and near kicks him in the face, but Dick rolls out of the way, laughing, until Jason throws himself at him and he lets out an  _ oof. _

“Little Wing isn’t so little,” Dick groans. 

“Nope,” Jason affirms, and then proceeds to shriek like a two pound Yorkie when Dick shoves his fingers against his neck.

_ “ _ I’m telling Father!” Damian declares.

“Oh, Dami!” Dick exclaims, falling back down on the mats. “I was just looking for you!”

“You saw me!” Damian snaps. “And proceeded to act as if I was nonexistent.”

“I was only playing,” Dick says, though regret begins to leak into his voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Damian crosses his arms and turns his head.

“Yeah, brat,” Jason adds. “You’re acting like you’re twelve -- oh, wait.”

He doesn’t even have the chance to laugh before Damian puts him in a guillotine, arms locked around his neck.

“Say it again,” Damian hisses.

Jason swallows uncomfortably against his bicep. Dick, untangling himself from Jason, is waving the flat of his hand furiously under his chin and shaking his head in the universal sign for  _ DON’T. _

_ “Twelve,”  _ Jason mutters, and Dick puts his head in his hands as Damian pulls the choke tight. Jason taps the mat, black pushing at the edges of his vision, until Damian finally lets go. He’s coughing and rubbing his neck when Damian kicks him onto his back and plants himself on Jason’s chest. He sets his arm under Jason’s neck.

“Any last words?” Damian asks smugly.

“A few.” Jason grins. “Dad doesn’t like groundfighting. It makes us unnecessarily vulnerable.”

All he has to do is roll over. 

“No!” Damian screeches, pounding his fists on the mat. “No, no, no! Grayson!  _ Grayson! _ ”

“You hear something?” Dick asks, getting to his feet.

“Must be that mosquito again.”

_ “No! No, it’s me!” _

“Oh, yeah. Well.” Dick’s hands go back on his hips. “Guess I’ll keep looking for Dami. Alfred made baklava.”

“Baklava?” Damian parrots, and kicks his feet. “ _ Let me up!” _

“Better find the brat, then,” Jason says. “He’ll want it first.”

_ “It’s mine!” _

“But if he’s not around…” Dick shrugs and starts for the stairs. “You want me to bring you down some?”

_ “No! It’s  _ mine,  _ Pennyworth made it for  _ me! _ ” _

“Yes, please.”

“Cool. Be back in a few.”

_ “Grayson -- Grayson, where are you going? Get back here! GRAYSON!” _


	2. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate laughs at Duke.

Duke didn’t mean for this to happen.

But fate just  _ loves  _ to laugh at him, doesn’t it? It gets in his face and laughs to distract him from being gutted. Over and over with a Pez dispenser. 

He wants to pray for the sweet release of death, but considering how this family  _ operates,  _ he’s afraid of what will happen if he does. 

(Fate. Will. Laugh.)

“Help me,” he says. “Alfred, I can’t do this.”

“No need to be so dramatic, Master Duke,” Alfred says. “It’s only breakfast.”

No, it’s not. Alfred knows it. Duke knows it. Everyone with a half a brain cell knows it.  Duke’ll just have to sneak out somehow --

“I wouldn’t think about it, Master Duke,” Alfred remarks. He’s pouring himself a cup of tea, his back to Duke. “This may be the Wayne property, but it has always been the Pennyworths in charge of it.”

“Alfred,” Duke pleads.

“Master Duke,” Mr. Alfred returns, and sips his tea. “I would sit, if I were you. Breakfast has become a bloodbath as of late.”

Duke can’t tell if he’s kidding. He sits down on one of the stools of the island.

“Not there,” Alfred says. 

There are only five stools, but Duke is ninety percent sure Bruce has more than five kids. He thinks they might be spawned from the Mansion’s shadows, like the zombies in Zelda: Ocarina of Time. 

Duke stands and looks at Alfred helplessly.

“That would be Cassandra’s seat,” he says. “Might I suggest the one to the right? She’ll be able to catch you, lest you fall.”

“Fall?” Duke repeats, throat suddenly dry. Above him, something -- some _ one  _ suddenly thumps. The refrigerator shakes.

“Stay strong, Master Duke,” Alfred says. He stands stoically before the island, serene as a stone. Duke holds on to the edge of the counter like it’s a lifeboat and he’s drowning the middle of the sea.

A crash. Titus begins to bark. It sounds like a stampede down the stairs, and Duke instinctively gets low. Alfred sets his tea on the counter as the yelling starts.

Alfred the cat comes streaking into the kitchen, and the butler captures him calmly in his arms, rubbing his ears as Dick, skidding on the floor in his socks, near goes face first into the wall. He catches himself just before and smiles at Alfred and Duke. “Good morn --”

“Watch it!” Jason shouts, sliding in and running into Dick’s back. Dick’s face squashes against the wall, and Duke winces. Jason hops onto the stool next to him and Duke barely keeps from covering his head.

“Hey, Duke,” Jason says. “You ready?”

“No,” Duke moans.

“Aw, it’s fun,” Dick says, taking the stool besides Jason. “Let’s bet.”

“Damian,” Jason says immediately.

“I was going to say Damian. You have to pick Tim.”

“I don’t wanna pick Tim.”

“But I pick Damian. And if you choose Damian, too, then it won’t be a good bet.”

For a moment, Duke doesn’t need any foresight to be certain that Dick and Jason about to come to blows. But it’s at that moment that Alfred clears his throat and the tension between the oldest Robins disappears.

Jason nudges Duke. Duke makes a valiant attempt to stare straight ahead.

_ “Who’s it gonna be?”  _ Jason whispers.

Duke shakes his head.

Jason nudges him. “C’mon. I’ll let you have first pancake.” He waggles his eyebrows, like this is an acceptable trade.

But he is wrong. Duke is not hungry for pancakes. The only thing Duke hungers for is the complete satisfaction of all-encompassing oblivion.

Jason opens his mouth, about to offer something else, but is interrupted.

“Leave him alone,” Cass says on Duke’s other side, and Duke nearly yeets himself from his flesh prison. Cass pats his hand and smiles with too many teeth. Duke swallows, knuckles pale on the counter. He doesn’t know when she got there. She was  _ not  _ there a minute ago. He is very, very sure she was not there thirty seconds ago.

Duke is the one with the special ability, but he’s not so sure Cass is a normal human. Or mortal, for that matter.

The ceiling creaks.

“Damian,” Dick and Jason breathe immediately, staring overhead.

Cass shakes her head and whispers in Duke’s ear, “Tim.”

He nods solemnly back. He looks to Alfred, but Alfred’s gaze is fixed on the doorway. He is holding the cat firmly. The cat itself looks alarmed, fur fluffed, teeth bared in a snap. It flicks its tail irritably. 

_ “Halt, Drake!” _

Dick and Jason break out in grins. 

_ “Oh, no!”  _ they hear Tim shout.  _ “It’s mine!” _

Scuffling. Feral screaming. Duke prays that if there is a divine being,  _ help him now.  _

A significantly large thud.

_ “You pushed me down the stairs!”  _ Damian cries. 

Another sound like someone hitting the floor, though more of a  _ thump  _ as Tim must jump down the steps and roll. He scrambles into the kitchen first, pale-faced and breathless, before throwing himself onto the last stool.

“See?” Jason says, flicking Dick in the ear. “It’s not a good bet. Now we both lose, with nothing to show for it.”

“It’s too early for this,” Tim complains. He goes to set his face on the counter, but Damian runs into the kitchen  _ screaming  _ and shoves him off. Dick lets out an offended squawk, bumping Jason who, in turn, bumps Duke. It wouldn’t have been enough for Duke to slip off, but he’s already so close to his sanity being let loose into the earthly plane that Cassandra has to anchor him by putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Alfred!” Tim cries. “I was here first!”

Alfred doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, as Tim launches himself from Dick and pushes Damian, who holds the seat of the stool. They both go down, and the stool cracks against the tile floor. 

The kitchen goes silent, save for the rapid beating of Duke’s heart. 

_ “Oooh,”  _ Cassandra says, speaking first. “They’re in trouble.”

Dick and Jason nod seriously. Tim and Damian pick themselves up from the floor, already pointing at one another, when Bruce’s voice reverberates throughout the Mansion,  _ “What was  _ that?”

Duke knows. He clasps his hands together and bows his head.

It’s the sound of Fate laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about Duke Thomas, save for the fact that he deserves a medal.


	3. Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wants to go to bed. Tim is above bedtime.

When Tim is crouched at the side of the couch, looking horribly pleased with himself, Dick knows it’s time to be suspicious. He crosses into the living room and frowns. Damian is curled into the corner of the couch, burrowed into one of Dick’s old sweatshirts. A Nintendo Switch lays abandoned in his lap, and Damian’s eyes are closed.

Damian napping would be a rare sight to see, and if Tim’s taking pictures Dick will have to tell him off and ask for them. But it  _ is  _ four in the morning. Damian must not have been able to sleep and decided to wait the night out with his Switch  _ which,  _ if Dick remembers clearly, Jason hid in a vase after Damian tried to brain him with it.

“Tim,” Dick tries patiently. Tim holds up a finger. He has something in his other hand. It glints dully. Dick stands next to him and looks down at Damian, sleeping perfectly peacefully.

Tim still has that self-satisfied smirk on his face. 

“What are you doing up?” Dick asks.

“What are  _ you  _ doing up?” Tim replies. Dick woke up with his Tim senses ringing. 

Now they’re blaring.

“Tim,” Dick presses.

“Shh.” Tim puts his finger against Dick’s mouth. “ _ Shh, shh, shh. _ I’m working.”

“On what?” Dick mumbles behind Tim’s finger, but Tim doesn’t answer. He’s raising his other hand, and for a moment Dick is  _ terrified  _ he’s going to poke Damian awake, but instead Tim just places a crumpled tin foil hat on top of Damian’s hood.

Dick wants to go back to bed. “Have you been up all night?”

“No,” Tim says, hand still outstretched in case the tin foil falls. He retracts his arm carefully. “I got a full fifteen minutes before I got inspired.”

“Inspired for what?”

“Seeing if I can interrupt the government satellite.”

Dick closes his eyes. “Tim, no.”

“I wanna see if it works.”

“Tim,  _ no _ .” He reaches out to pluck the tin foil off Damian, but Tim bats his hand away. Dick frowns and tries again. “Tim --  _ Timothy Jackson -- ” _

_ “Dick,”  _ Tim bites so that Dick isn’t sure if he’s being insulted or just being called by his name. Maybe both. 

Dick really, really wants to go back to bed. He really, really,  _ really  _ wants Tim to go to bed. He makes another attempt to remove Tim’s latest experiment, but Tim lunges for him just a bit too aggressively. They jostle Damian.

Damian’s eyes flick open immediately, a low growl emanating from his throat. Dick and Tim freeze. The tin foil hat, forgotten, slips off of Damian’s head.

Damian looks down at it, baffled, and Tim takes the chance to shove Dick towards him and shout, “Gee, what a  _ dick  _ move, Dick --” and running like his life depends on it. Dick hears him slip on the steps, judging by the thump and the  _ “Balls!” _

“Grayson,” Damian demands, turning Dick’s attention back. He’s holding the tin foil hat with one hand. “What is the meaning of this?”

Dick notes how tightly he’s gripping his Switch. “Nothing, Dami.”

Damian tosses the tin foil across the room and rises from the couch. “This is Drake’s doing.”

“He was only teasing you --”

Damian’s teeth bare.

“Damian, please don’t. It’s four in the morning. I want to go to bed. Can’t we all just go to bed?”

Damian looks from him to the stairs. He slaps the Switch between his hands menacingly.

“Please,” Dick asks.

Damian scowls and looks away from him. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Dick sighs, but Damian adds, “Just as soon as I put Drake to rest.  _ Permanently _ .”

Dick stares at the couch longingly as Damian pushes past him. “Don’t be loud.”

“I don’t make promises I don’t wish to keep,” Damian replies, and charges up the stairs. Dick hears scuffling. Tim squeals, and the ceiling creaks as if he’s jumped on a bed. Dick catches him shouting about a salt circle.

Dick wants to go to bed. He doesn’t feel like getting in the middle of the fight upstairs, so he flops down on the couch and closes his eyes. It couldn’t have been two minutes before he hears Jason entering the scene.

_ “YOU GUYS SCREAMING? I CAN SCREAM, TOO. AHHHHHHHH. AHHHHHHHHH---” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a quick one. I can't vouch for its quality. Enjoy anyway?
> 
> Happy Spring holiday!


	4. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has no patience for fear or quarantine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing a quarantine one because...come on. It's Tim. I imagine he's pissed.  
> I imagine Alfred is absolutely LIVID. 
> 
> Not particularly angsty, just gets introspective. My bad :/
> 
> But references to 90's Tim!!!

“Kill me now,” Tim says.

“Timmy,” Dick pouts on the screen. Somewhere in the background Tim can hear Jason yell,  _ “I get first dibs!”  _

“I can’t believe you did this to me,” Tim moans. 

“I can’t believe you weren’t expecting it,” Damian says. He pokes his head up in front of the screen, so that only a creased forehead and a sheaf of dark hair shows.

“Quarantine is a government scam,” Tim deadpans. “The virus is spread through 5G networks. Don’t feed into the lies.”

Damian makes a noise between a scoff and a gag. Jason, still lurking somewhere outside of view, lets out a sharp bark of a laugh.

“I can’t tell if you believe that or not,” Dick says. He moves Damian aside to squint into the camera. Tim keeps his face straight.

“You dosed me,” he says. 

“You wouldn’t leave otherwise.”

“It’s still nice to be  _ asked  _ and not be forcibly removed from one's own home.”

“You’re in the penthouse, Tim. You have all the comforts you need. I even brought all your Xbox games.”

“Even Minecraft?”

Dick’s smile falters.

“Yeah, didn’t fucking think so.”

“At least you’re not alone,” Dick says. “How’s Alfie?”

“Mad as a hornet,” Tim says, and flips his phone to face the room. Alfred sits stoically in an armchair, going to war with a packet of crosswords. “He already finished the sudoku and didn’t save me  _ any.” _

“First come, first served,” Alfred replies. He looks up at Tim’s phone. “Master Dick, do please relate a message to Master Bruce for me?”

“Sure, Alfie,” Dick’s voice sounds. 

Alfred sets his crossword aside and looks dead into Tim’s phone camera.  _ “I let him.” _

Dick laughs nervously. Tim would honestly feel bad for him, if it weren’t for the fact that the entire family teamed against him and Alfred. Tim’s been ousted for the missing spleen, which wouldn’t do shit against a viral infection, anyway, and Alfred is smarting against his age. Neither of them were happy waking up that afternoon in the penthouse. 

“It’s for your own good,” the note on the coffee table said. Which doesn’t make sense to Tim, since if his good is truly his  _ own, _ he should be master of it. But  _ nooooo.  _ You’re self-destructive, Tim. You’re being selfish, Tim. Stop threatening to lick toilet seats, Tim.  _ It’s not funny, Tim.  _

It’s as if everyone’s forgotten he went through the Clench. The  _ Clench.  _ If some coronavirus wants to come after Tim, fine by him. He  _ dares it.  _ He’ll dropkick it into the next dimension.

“I don’t like that face,” Dick says.

“He’s scheming,” Damian agrees, appearing over Dick’s shoulder. “Don’t bother, Timothy. If you set foot outside of the penthouse, I’ll bring you back myself.” He grins wildly.  _ “By any means necessary.” _

“Um, no,” Dick says. “But Jason does have full permission to shoot you with a tranquilizer dart.”

Jason finally shows himself in the background. His eyebrows bounce up and down, and he makes finger guns straight at Tim before tilting a bag of --  _ those are TIM’S GOLDFISH, the blatant DISRESPECT in this house --  _ into his mouth. 

“You honestly think Jason could stop me,” Tim remarks flatly. 

“Well, choke me with your ego, why don’t you,” Jason says. He sets the empty bag of Goldfish on top of Damian’s head, and Damian bats it flying out of view.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees Alfred lower his crossword.

“They’re getting crumbs all over the carpet,” Tim volunteers cheerily. Alfred’s gaze sharpens like a hawk’s. Tim’s glad they’re on the same side.

“Let’s hope they aren’t,” Alfred says simply. On Tim’s phone, Dick’s shoulders hike, and Jason points at Damian meaningfully. Damian grabs hold of Jason’s arm and flips him over the couch.

“It’s going to be fine, Alfie,” Dick tries, just as Damian screeches and is dragged out of view. The coffee table rattles, and Dick smiles unconvincingly. “We’ll bring you groceries everyday. And crosswords. Whatever you want.”

Alfred hums noncommittally.

“And if we want our freedom?” Tim asks.

“Just…” Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Not that. Try seeing this through our point of view. Please.” 

And Dick looks so tired and drawn and sad for a moment that Tim can do nothing but think about how Dick isn’t smiling.

Tim doesn’t like that look. That’s Dick’s  _ Please-Understand  _ look. That’s the look that ended his time as Robin. That’s the look that sent him chasing time.

No. Tim does not like that look at all. He wants to resist it, to look away and pretend it isn’t there and that it doesn’t mean anything.

“Fine,” he says instead, crossing his arms. Dick’s shoulders sag with relief, and Tim waggles a finger at his screen. “But you can’t keep us here forever, Dick. Jason would have to  _ see  _ me before he could shoot me.”

“I don’t have to see you,” Jason retorts. “I remind you that your ego rolls off you in utter  _ fumes --” _ He ends with a grunt, and Tim silently roots for Damian.

“It’s just until it’s safe,” Dick promises.

“It’s never safe,” Tim says, and before Dick can reply, adds, “Don’t let Damian get blood on the carpet.” 

Then he ends the call. He tosses his phone away from him and lays flat on the floor, staring at the ridged patterns of the ceiling.

He’s not afraid of any virus. Tim has gone up against assassins, immortals, aliens, and even a hell set in the seventies. He’s made almost-dying into a fine skill. 

The family acts as if he’s reckless. Tim’s not reckless. Tim’s anything but reckless. Reckless is charging into things unthinking. Tim is  _ always  _ thinking. And that’s the problem.  _ The problem. _ He can’t see from just one angle. He sees a whole field of possibilities, sprawling ahead of him, around him...he  _ lives _ on the touch and go. It’s the fine line between knowing too little and too much. It keeps him from being caught off guard.

He didn’t know a worldwide pandemic was coming. But he knew something was always coming. 

So he’s never afraid. 

Standing in the field of possibility, there is no room for fear. 

But others don’t see that field. They see one straight path, and they don’t know what happens when they stray off of it. They don’t think something bad is always coming, and so they never think that something good is always following, either. That’s just nature. Storms break open and release rain. Fires sweep through forests and crack open new seeds. Animals compete against each other and improve. Existence is not a chart of Good and Bad. 

Existence is just existence. You make of it what you will.

“Hungry, Master Tim?” Alfred asks, rising from his chair. 

Tim’s not. He doesn’t think Alfred is either -- being dosed knocks out hunger longer than people -- but he gets to his elbows. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m  _ hoping,”  _ Alfred corrects, “that Master Jason was the one to get the groceries.”

“He better have gotten me a new bag of Goldfish,” Tim agrees, and peels himself off the floor to follow Alfred into the kitchen.

The butler sets a warm hand on the back of his neck as they pass through the door. “All we can do is hope for the best, Master Tim.”

“Be strong,” Tim recites with a rueful huff. “Be patient.”

“Exactly,” Alfred says, and they face the pantry together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Tim first learns that his parents are kidnapped, Alfred tells him to "Never fear the worst until it actually happens. Be strong. Be patient."
> 
> Throughout Tim's Robin beginning, he's afraid to wear the suit -- literally says it gives him the shakes. His biggest fear is dishonoring what Dick and Jason built. Everything else pales. 
> 
> Also...for a kid with no spleen, Tim sure does run into a heck've a lot of germs. When he's in Paris learning how to not be a wimp he somehow gets caught up in King Snake's plan to release the bubonic plague. With, you know, Lady Shiva, who tells him he fights like shit and then proceeds to make him her "weapon" trying to take out King Snake. 
> 
> Also x2, coronavirus myths debunked: it is not spread through 5G networks. Please to not commit arson to network towers.
> 
> Also x3, 90's dweeb Tim is best Tim. In his split toe boots -- "I wanna slingshot" "That's a kid's toy" "ok I wanna slingshot"
> 
> Just. What an absolute dweeb waffle.


	5. Curiosity (Killed the Cat) and Satisfaction (Only Maybe Brought it Back).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no flapjackin' summary do you want a waffle or not don't tell me what's good for me BECAUSE THAT'S MY OPINION --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no editing no looking I timed myself for an hour and im posting no regerts

“Gee,” Jason says, walking around the new machine. “What the heck is that?”

“Stay away,” B says immediately. Jason gets closer. It’s a great big metal arch. The air fizzles around it -- Jason can feel  _ something  _ buzzing in his fingertips. He gets closer and reaches out.

“Stay,” B repeats,  _ “away.” _

Jason lets his arm drop. “Wasn’t gonna touch it.”

B looks over at him and peels off his cowl, becoming Bruce, tired and weary. He’s just returned from a Justice League mission, one that had taken days, and Jason had been getting impatient. He’d been curled in an armchair, reading the same page of Midsummer Night’s Dream for what seemed like the fifth time, when the pulls of the lamp beside him began to swing gently. His heart had leapt: it was clue enough that the Batmobile was rumbling to a stop beneath him. He’d raced to Bruce’s office and the grandfather clock and near splattered his brains jumping from the stairs. 

Not that he’d  _ missed  _ Bruce. Jason could do well enough on his own. But...it would really have sucked if something had happened.

But Bruce appeared fine, just grumpy and in dire need of a shower. And now there was a weird metal buzzy thing in the Batcave, dropped there by Green Lantern, who left before Jason could even begin to act the engrossed fanatic just to annoy Bruce. A pity.

“It’s a portal,” Bruce says. “A very, very,  _ very dangerous portal.  _ You will not get near it. Am I understood?”

He’s not  _ glaring  _ at Jason exactly, not like that one time Jason did a backflip off an alley wall, but his gaze is level and leaves no room for argument.

“Old man,” Jason grumbles, crossing his arms. “I’m not a kid.”

Bruce blinks at him, slow. Like Jason’s said something that doesn’t quite compute. 

Jason rolls his eyes but steps away from the portal thingy with a sigh. “Well, the least you can tell me is what it leads to. Alternate dimension?”

“That’s my business, chum,” Bruce says. “If I need help investigating, then you’re the first person I call, alright?”

He smiles. It makes Jason feel all squeamish inside. When he first came to the manor, he thought something was wrong.

Now he knows that little flip in his stomach is what being cared about is like. Jason can’t help but realize that it feels a lot like fear. A rollercoaster with no way down.

“Whatever,” he forces out. “I’ll find out sooner or later.”

Bruce rolls his eyes at him. He walks over and ruffles his hair, and before Jason can tell him to piss off Alfred’s coming down the stairs with tea and scones. And bad language might mean no jam.

* * *

“You know,” Jason says, leaning on the flat desk of the computer as Bruce types away beside him, “for a guy with a no-kill rule, you’re pretty merciless when it comes to curiosity.”

It takes a half second for Bruce to ask, “What?”

“Curiosity. You know. Killed the cat?” Jason rolls onto his side ot stare at him. Bruce’s face is washed out in blue light, and his eyes are glazed and squinting. There are creases at the corners of them. “Come on, old man. Just tell me. It’s an alternate dimension, right? Where to? Did you go? What was it like? Was the sky purple? Did it rain hydrogen chloroxide? I don’t know what that is, actually, I think I just made it up. Was everything 2D? Oh! I know! I bet the dimension was in one of those dirt cup things. With the oreos and pudding and gummy worms -- did you become a gummy worm?  _ Bruce.  _ Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, you  _ have  _ to tell me --”

Bruce’s gaze finally slides over to him. “Why don’t you talk to Alfred about those dirt cups, chum? I’m sure he’d help you make them.”

Jason scowls. “You’re making this hard on purpose.” He looks back at the portal. It still thrums, like it’s calling for him. He gets up from his chair and approaches it. When he glances back at Bruce, the old man is stiff in his chair. 

Jason takes another step closer. 

Bruce’s steady key-tapping slows. Jason lifts his foot, and it completely falters. 

Jason sets his foot down. 

“Jay,” Bruce says, in the same low voice he uses on Robin.

Jason shrugs his shoulders, even though Bruce hasn’t turned around. “I’m just walking around the Cave.” He starts whistling. “Just seeing the sights.”

Bruce lets out a heavy sigh and finally spins around. “Jason, I told you. It’s a dangerous object, and I’d like you to stay away from it. I’m serious, chum.” His eyebrows raise. “Okay?”

Jason shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

* * *

Bruce should know better, Jason thinks. He’s still in his Robin uniform after a long night out. Bruce has hit the showers, his particular brand of quiet-angry because some thug kicked him in the ribs. Jason knows that for all the times Batman gets hit, the man under the cowl  _ hates  _ it, because B thinks he should be some kind of robot without pain signals. Which is bullshit, in Jason’s head. Pain tells you what you did wrong. You do the right thing next time, or you die. Simple as that.

Alfred is upstairs, his particular brand of quiet-disapproving because B was snapped at Jason for a jab that didn’t connect as soon as he hopped out of the car. Jason was going for a feint and then an uppercut, but B went on a long rant about  _ if you make to hit somebody, you better hit them, blah blah blah I’m Batman and I act like a colicky baby when I’m hurt. _

Jason isn’t a particular brand of quiet-anything at the moment. Alfred rubbed his shoulder and shot meat cleavers at Bruce as he left to shower and the butler returned up the stairs, but Jason didn’t need the comfort. He knew what he was doing tonight. Bruce just didn’t see it, and that was  _ his  _ fault, not Jason’s. 

Bruce, again, should know better. Jason circles the portal, grinning. _Finally,_ his chance to investigate. 

Just in case Bruce is, you know, missing something else.

The portal is large, the metal a pale, gleaming chrome. As Jason goes around it, he notices a faint scrawl along its sides. It’s not a language he knows. Alien, maybe. 

He stands before its opening and fingerguns it. “How you doin’?”

The portal doesn’t reply. 

Jason drops his hands and sets them on his hips. “Come here often?”

Silence.

“Come on, sweet thing,” Jason cooes. He takes the final steps into it, looks up at the inside of the curved ring. “Tell me about yourself.”

He sets his hand on one of the sides, and the scrawl flashes green. The portal buzzes beneath his hand and he frowns, a question mark forming in his head.

It becomes a warning when a shock pierces through him, a lightning bolt of pain. He  _ screams,  _ and everything goes green. The buzzing in the portal becomes the vibrations in his chest as sound tears from his lungs, powerful as a shockwave.  His skin is bubbles and chars and drops off his bones, weightless. His eyes melt in their sockets. His cells split and fuse and split again. He is - he is - sorry, B, he’s so sorry --

And then it’s over. 

Awareness crawls back to him weak and wavering. He stumbles out of the now-silent ring, trying to remember how to breathe and coughing. He leans heavily against the portal and blinks the last of the green smudges from his eyes.

Bruce and Alfred are nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s lucky, and no time must have passed. The portal must be malfunctioning, though, which is why Batman is working on it and Jason’s not supposed to be near it. Jason lets out a shaky sigh of relief and runs a hand through his hair.

His hand passes through him.

His breath catches, fear slamming into him like a blow. He holds up his hand, shaking.

It’s clear. Not unmarred, but  _ clear.  _ Transparent. Not there.

Jason is too surprised to scream. He sags to the floor, dimly noting that his suit is has turned black where it is supposed to be red. He can feel his hand -- _humming, just like the portal used to_ \-- but it’s not there. He flexes his fingers, and they blink back into existence like a struggling lightbulb. 

He squeezes his eyes shut.  _ It’s just a dream. Just a nightmare. _

He opens his eyes. His hand is normal. His suit is normal.

It was just a dream.

He sets his hand down on the floor and lays his head back against the portal, still breathing hard. Just a crazy ass dream.

His hand, and then his arm, fall straight through the floor. Jason wrenches them back and scoots away from the portal. Both of his hands now flick between flesh and  _ nothing. _

“Master Jason?” Alfred calls from the stairs, and Jason jumps to his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets. Alfred comes into view, looking around before his eyes settle on Jason. “I thought I heard something.”

“Nothing, Alfie,” Jason lies, except Alfred always knows when he’s lying, so he puts on a scowl like a mask. “Just mad at B, that’s all.”

Alfred hums in agreement. He makes as if to start back up the steps, but as soon as his foot lands on the first one he turns back. His eyes bore into Jason’s, and Jason’s heart stops in his chest.

Literally. Stops. He can feel the dead thing in his chest. He wills it to beat, and it obeys, although sluggishly, as if annoyed at being told what to do.

“However mad you are, you stay away from that portal, Master Jason,” Alfred orders primly. 

Jason nods dumbly. 

“Good, because I can neither confirm nor deny that there are raspberry scones upstairs.”

Jason manages a shaky grin. “Thanks, Alf.”

The butler smiles back and continues up the stairs. Jason waits a few moments before pulling his hands out of his pockets. They are flesh and blood again, and his suit continues to look normal. He rips his domino off his face. It flashes inverse for a second, white with stark green eyes that glare accusingly up at him. And then it’s gone. 

Jason takes in a thin, wheezing breath. He doesn’t know about the portal or what it did to him, but he does knows one thing.

_ He can’t tell Bruce. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy u kno ya boi got his free Danny Phantom AU - *falls off skateboard* YoU mAdE mE dRoP mY CROISSANT


	6. Crunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What'cha got there?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried writing this I quote on quote sounded like ‘a dying chihuahua’ but my tears will make me beautiful
> 
> also I know Nightwing lives in Bludhaven okay but let me LIVE
> 
> also no editing I can't edit through my tears

“Nightwing,” Red Hood asks. He’s never been more bewildered in his life. “What’cha got there?”

Nightwing lifts the little baggy of white powder in his hand. “I don’t know.” He holds the bag up to his eye-level. “Cocaine, maybe? Flour?” 

“No, no. In your other hand.”

“My cereal cup.” Nightwing holds it up. It’s light blue and something from nightmares.

“Your cereal cup,” Red Hood repeats.

“Yeah. It’s got Fruit Loops in it. You want some?” Nightwing extends to cup towards him, and Red Hood backs up as if he’s just offered him a poisonous snake. Nightwing shrugs and takes a swig. Red Hood can hear him crunching from here. They are in alley littered with unconscious boneheads and one mildly concussed Red Robin, waiting for pick up. 

And Nightwing is. Crunching. On Kellogg’s cereal.

“A cereal cup,” Red Hood repeats for the second time. 

“Uh huh.”  _ Crunch, crunch.  _ “It’s got these two compartments --”  _ Crunch-crunch -- _ “so the cereal and milk stay separate until you put it to your mouth.”  _ CRUNCH. _

“Innovation that excites,” Red Robin mumbles from where he is slumped against a wall, and Nightwing nods enthusiastically. 

“I should never have trusted you for this stake out,” Red Hood sighs.

“I can order you one.”

“Please don’t.”

“I want one,” Red Robin says. 

“No,” Red Hood replies at the same time Nightwing promises, “I’ll get everybody one.”

_ “Get me one and it will be your remains I put in it,”  _ Robin snarls through the comms. 

“My blood and bones will stay separate,” Nightwing replies. And then tilts the cup back in his mouth. The crunching will haunt Red Hood’s dreams. It sounds like his last two braincells crying for mercy. 

“I’m going to put coffee and Cinnamon Toast Crunch in mine,” Red Robin muses. 

Nightwing gestures with his cup toward him. “I’ll drink to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not endorsing any products that have been mentioned above but man oh man what a time to be a-l-i-v-e.


	7. 3 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim works the night shift in a 24 hour cafe in a city with one too many vigilantes.
> 
> He does not appreciate it when they "drop by".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't gonna post this but I had no fanfiction to read and if I can save just one person from this fate then I will have done well.

It’s 3 a.m. and Tim’s only company is a coffee cup tower, his laptop, a nd the vigilante bleeding out on the floor.  Which, he feels obligated to point out, he just mopped five hours ago while pretending the mop was a Victorian suitor vying for his hand in marriage. But the Red Hood just  _ had  _ to break the window, sending shattered glass and blood spilling across the linoleum. 

Tim regards him irritably, mop held like a staff in his hands. He debates on poking Red Hood’s chest with it, because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, when you’re not sure somebody’s dead?

He scowls and decides on tapping Red Hood’s helmet with the top of the mop. “Rise and shine, Red.”

Red doesn’t move. Tim edges around him, careful to avoid the spatters of blood stretching out from the Hood’s left shoulder. What do you when a vigilante dies on your floor? This is not in the employee handbook. Does he call GCPD? An ambulance? Is there even a special wing in the hospital for injured vigilantes?

He sighs and pulls out his phone.

“I’ll do it,” he tells the Red Hood, crouching to shove the screen in his face. “You leave me no choice.  _ And  _ I expect somebody to clean this up.” He taps in a private number. It rings once, twice, three times before the call ends without ever having been picked up. Tim frowns.

“For your tech goddess, Oracle’s not very good at picking up calls, is she?” he says. “But you can see I tried. I don’t know what you were doing, but this was definitely your fault. I have no part in this.” He types in another number. His call gets picked up before he can even register the first ring.

_ “This is the Wayne residence,” _ a prim British voice answers _. “Mister Wayne is unavailable at the moment. Can I take a message?” _

“Yes,” Tim says, rising and leaning against his mop. “Please get the Red Hood off my floor. He’s being a sanitation hazard.”

A pause. Tim waits patiently.

_ “I beg your pardon?”  _ Alfred Pennyworth says. 

“I mean, I could call 911 if you wanted,” Tim replies. “But I’m pretty sure the paramedics are gonna take off his helmet, and then,  _ Ah! It’s Jason Todd! He’s supposed to be dead! _ You know?”

_ “I don’t --” _

“He’s right here,” Tim says. “On my floor. I don’t care who you send. If Nightwing comes I’ll make him a kiddy whip.”

* * *

Nightwing, however, is not the one who comes.

“Kiddy whip?” Tim offers, holding the cup out to Batman. He puts on his best Work Smile, the one that’s just as plastic as his nametag. 

Batman does not respond. He stoops, cape spilling across the floor. It falls in some of Red Hood’s blood, but he doesn’t appear to care. He lifts Hood in a bridal carry, as if he weighs no more than the whipped cream cup in Tim’s hand. Which Tim now regards carefully, because it’s a perfectly good kiddy whip. He could offer it to Batman to-go, but…

“You know,” Batman growls. It sounds like he’s been gargling glass for forty years. Ouch and ew. 

Tim waits a second to answer. Not to compose something eloquent and witty. Just because he was mid lick in the kiddy whip.

“Was it supposed to be a secret?” he replies finally, raising his eyebrows. “Because it wasn’t very hard to figure out.”

He’s wearing the cowl, but Tim swears Batman’s eyes narrow. The lenses that cover his eyes sharpen. 

Tim shrugs, then gestures to the floor. “Are you going to get somebody to clean this up?” He squints at the floor. “Because it’s three fifteen and my shift ends at four.”

Batman doesn’t reply. Tim looks up and learns that he’s actually had the nerve to go and  _ disappear,  _ like a coward running away from his problems. Tim swears, eyes roving from the broken glass to the blood to the -- oh, great, destroyed security cameras. Thanks, buddy.

The carcasses lay scattered on the floor. He wonders when that happened. 

“Could’ve at least  _ attempted  _ to call Oracle,” he mutters to the empty cafe, then sighs and trudges to the supply closet for the dust pan and disinfectant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i looked up linoleum no i still don't know what it is


	8. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duke thinks he night have walked in on a cult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never really written Stephanie, but I really vibe with her.  
> Also here's my [tumblr](https://sonosvegliato.tumblr.com/) please recommend me really good Warrior Cat fanfics

Jason and Damian are in a fight unlike Duke has ever seen before. It’s ruthless. It’s cutthroat. It’s currently bloodless, but Duke doubts it will stay that way for long.

He shouldn’t have come here. The Manor is a minefield, and Duke just willingly flamenco’d to his doom.

“Alderheart’s a little _ BITCH,” _ Jason screams.

“He’s doing his best!” Damian snaps back. “He respects the clan!”

“Alderheart doesn’t do jack _ shit.  _ Jayfeather was blind and fought against the entire fucking Dark Forest --”

_ “Jayfeather,”  _ Damian spits, “was irritating and unlikable, and frankly --”

“What do you mean you don’t like Jayfeather? He’s the best one. He’s literally the best one.”

“Where is his character development?” Damian asks. “All he’s good for is facetious remarks and talking to dead cats, which, I point out, is always useless. The  _ Power of Three _ was a trainwreck. _ The New Prophecy, _ on the other hand --”

“ _ The New Prophecy,” _ Jason repeats, dumbfounded. “You liked The New Prophecy. _ ”  _

Damian’s face scrunches. “And  _ The Prophecies Begin. _ I found Brambleclaw’s climb to redemption heartfelt --”

“Brambleclaw is  _ the most boring one!” _

“I think Hollyleaf deserved more --”

“I would literally die for Brackenfur. I know what dying’s like, and I still say it with all sincerity.”

“Brackenfur is steadfast and reliable.”

“I will cry forever about Ravenpaw. Forever and ever and ever.”

“Fireheart is condescending to Sandstorm while she’s still a ‘paw. Not to mention Graystripe --

“--  _ ABANDONING HIS OWN APPRENTICE _ to go feel up his forbidden lady?  _ I KNOW! _ ”

“What are they talking about?” Duke asks.

Stephanie takes a long sip from her Dr. Pepper before answering, “Warrior cats.”

Tim inhales sharply, jerking his head up from his laptop.

“No,” Jason says, using the same tone of voice Alfred uses when Titus is lurking around the dining table or Bruce is bleeding all over the kitchen. “You don’t get to speak until you’re at least through Omen of the Stars, because then Jayfeather isn’t featured anymore and as far as I’m concerned Warriors  _ ended.” _

“But I just realized,” Tim breathes, eyes wide with awe. “You’re Swiftpaw.”

“Alrighty, Duke,” Stephanie says with a whistle, grabbing onto his arm and steering him out of the living room. “Let’s get out of here.”

The screaming is blood-curdling. A war-cry born of the tortured ages. Duke winces.

“What’s Warrior Cats?” he whispers.

Stephanie tilts the Dr. Pepper towards her the same way Duke’s seen grown men throw back liquor. She lowers the bottle and wipes her mouth, and when her hand comes away her smile is absolutely _**feral.**_

“I want to say ‘shame’,” she says. “But I once decked a kid in the library for reaching  _ A Dangerous Path  _ before I did. My favorite cat is Squirrelflight because she doesn’t take  _ shit.”  _

“Is this a cult?” Duke asks carefully.

Stephanie shrugs. “It’s childhood. So, sure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't say who won the argument but BRACKENFUR DESERVES AN ENTIRE SAGA COME AT ME
> 
> Whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever you're doing -- even if you've been sitting in the dark reading fanfiction for the past three hours (it's ok my dude, I read warrior cat fanfics at three in the afternoon) -- I'm thinking about all y'all. *makes heart shape with hands* /let me love you./
> 
> ...Full disclosure if I was a warrior cat, I'd be Berrynose.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two cryptids drinking coffee. (Tim is training the new employee. He's convinced she's the She-Ra.)  
> More Barista!Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internet: Stephanie is a perfectly average 5’5.  
> Me: Stephanie is 5’11. She a giant woman who will wear heels whenever she likes.

He’s training the new employee. It’s nice to have human companionship. She’s cute. And friendly. A little too peppy for a night shift, but Tim’s not so much annoyed by it as awed. 

But this Stephanie Brown: she’s really doing her best.

She’s currently testing how much whipped cream she can put on a single cup of black coffee before it topples. It’s a lot more than Tim expected. Stephanie is precise with her whipped cream.

“Do you plan on using the whole canister?” Tim asks.

“If that’s what it takes.” Her tongue is poking through the side of her mouth. Tim didn’t think anyone actually did that.

Stephanie does. She’s actually perfect for the night shift, because just like the hours she’s tilted a little past normal, strolling off the plane of reality as it shifts underneath her like a Rubik’s Cube. The cafe is bright enough to stab someone’s eyes out with just a couple of photons, but Stephanie manages to be  _ brighter.  _ She looks like she walked straight from the Eighties, with flouncing yellow hair pulled back in a ponytail with a purple scrunchie. Her eyeliner, Tim notes, is also purple. And sparkly. 

“What kind of creature are you?” Tim asks while he fills up his fourth cup of coffee. He leans forward on the counter, stretching out the backs of his legs. 

“A college student,” Stephanie replies. She’s set the whipped cream down and is snapping photos of her leaning tower of cream. When some of it tilts precariously towards the clean counter, she catches it before it falls and tilts her palm towards her mouth like she’s popping a pill.

“You’re lively for a college student,” Tim observes.

Stephanie looks up from licking her hand, one eyebrow raised. “Well, what kind of cryptid are you?”

“A coffee shop one,” he says, and drinks his coffee for emphasis. “I don’t know.”

“You’re not in college?”

He shakes his head and laughs. “Heck no.”

Stephanie’s other eyebrow hikes. “Going to be a barista your whole life?”

“You’re judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m judging your  _ decisions.”  _ She considers the whipped cream can again, and squirts a shot into her mouth. 

“I’m only a barista now. But soon I’ll own this place and then I’ll make it a franchise, which will sprout across the earth like a pox, and I will be master over every unwitting customer chained to half-assed coffee. They’ll ask for skim milk and I’ll give them whole.” He throws his head back and does his best evil laugh. “I will destroy the world, one latte at a time.”

“Admirable.” Stephanie nods, nonplussed. “For someone so small, you think pretty big.”

He points a finger at her. “No. No, I am not small. I am perfectly average in China. It’s not my fault America is full of giants.”

She mimics his position at the counter but sets her chin in her hand, grinning between her fingers. “Are you Chinese?”

“Some,” Tim mutters. 

Stephanie’s grin grows predatory. “I have a feeling your mother was taller than you.”

“Shut up!” 

“You’re very defensive about this. There’s no shame.” She lets go of her chin and turns away from the counter, leaning back on her elbows with a shrug. “I mean, I’m taller than my dad. No biggie.”

“I hope you’re fired.”

“You need me. I can reach cabinets without climbing counters.”

“Stop it.”

“Look, watch this.” She pushes herself off towards the tea shelf, and pats the top of each canister. “Look at me, Tim! I’m touching the tea!”

“I can touch it too!” he protests, even though his head is only to Stephanie’s shoulder. Stephanie waggles her eyebrows at him.

Tim stands on his toes. His fingertips just graze the side of the tin, but he keeps fumbling for it. He just needs it to turn a  _ little  _ towards him --

Stephanie nudges it an inch back. Tim’s fingers grab nothing but air. He scowls at her.

“You know,” she says, whistling, “Coffee stunts your growth.”

“When I take over the world, you’re the first to go.”

“I don’t know, Tim. You know what they say: behind every great man is an even greater woman. And I’m, like, at least five inches greater.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know 5'11 isn't really tall but I have dreams. And the girls who walk around on my college campus give me hope.  
> Also, I have Tim as 5'5. Tall enough to reach the first shelf, but has to do an awkward shimmy-climb thing to reach the next. I know this. 
> 
> Bonus: 
> 
> Stephanie’s nametag is adorned with princess stickers. She asks Tim for his so she can decorate it.  
> He doesn’t trust her. But the princess stickers. They’re sparkly. He is weak.  
> So now his printed name is dwarfed by the TINY scrawled in bright purple sharpie. But Stephanie added a crown in the corner, so it's okay.


	10. Cookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Waynes have odd traditions. Sometimes it's nice to be included. Most times it's not. 
> 
> (Duke is bestowed a new name, ft. Steph at her best).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's a saucy one.

He’s rummaging through the fridge and not paying attention to the Waynes. He’s too focused on the fancy vanilla ice cream he’s found jammed under the fudgesicles Jason bought that when Alfred found Jason blamed Dick for them. And Duke can mind his own business.

That much cannot be said about the Waynes. 

He near drops the carton when he hears Dick call his name. 

“Duke!”

He turns slowly, pushing down the swell of fear. The Waynes will smell it. They will feed. “Yes?”

“You don’t have an alter-ego,” Dick says mournfully. He lays with his face on the counter, an ice pack draped over the right side of his head. Duke spots an ugly bruise forming beneath Dick’s eye.

“I have an alter-ego,” Duke replies, setting the ice cream on the counter and turning his back to reach for a bowl. Maybe Nightwing got a concussion? “You just never see me because you’re sleeping.” 

“He doesn’t mean Signal,” Jason says, and Duke fumbles with his bowl at how close his voice is. Jason steadies his arm and leans into view with a smile Duke can only describe as serpentine. “He means your stripper name.”

“My  _ what?” _

“Your night-life name,” Damian explains patiently. Duke stares at him, but Damian is squinting at a grain of rice in his bowl. His face is flat. 

This must be a joke. But Damian doesn’t put up with Dick’s sense of humor --

Duke turns his eyes on Tim, who is so far off his stool he looks more like a tablecloth than a person. He’s buried in a Gotham Knights hoodie about three sizes too big to be anyone’s in the house, even Jason or Bruce’s. Heck, it could be  _ Bane’s.  _ The sleeve moves in what could be a thumbs-up.

“It’s a rite of passage, Duke,” Jason says.

Duke flattens himself against the cabinets. “No, it’s not. You said that about watching Barbie in the Dreamhouse and I still can’t look Bruce in the eyes.” He taps his forehead. “I have to gauge him by his forehead wrinkles. It’s gotten to the point I’ve named them.”

“Impressive,” Jason says, crossing his ankles. “But we’re telling the truth this time. Promise.” He points to himself. “I’m Red Rider.”

“Stop,” Duke says, clutching his bowl to his chest.

Dick’s head whips up, his ice pack hitting the floor with a sorry  _ splat.  _ “That one’s good! Mine’s Jim Nasty.” He rolls his fingers at Duke. “You know, like gymnast, but --”

Duke’s fingers tighten on the bowl, his knuckles as white as his lost innocence.  _ “Please.” _

Tim’s finger appears from under his gigantic sleeve, the fabric pooling down to his elbow. In a pathetic attempt at a husky voice he says, “And I’m Techy Tits.”

“This isn’t appropriate,” Duke sputters.

Damian traps another clump of rice between his chopsticks. “It’s a rite of passage, Thomas. Little can be done about it except acceptance.” He puts the rice in his mouth before adding, “Mine is a secret. If you knew, I’d have to kill you.”

It’s a funny pop reference. Duke doesn’t think Damian knows many pop references, much less use them. Duke doesn’t think Damian is using a pop reference.

“We can call him Cookie for now,” Dick decides. 

“Please,” Duke says, trying to move past Jason to reach for his ice cream, “don’t.”

“Just for now. Until you earn your permanent one.”

“I don’t want a permanent one,” Duke whines. He wishes he had a Cassandra panic button. “Please -- no stripper names --”

“You’re giving him a stripper name without me?” Stephanie cries, skidding into the kitchen. Her high bun flops over her forehead, and she pushes it back, eyes wild. “What is it?”

“Cookie,” Jason says. 

“Cookie!” Stephanie scoffs. “That’s uncreative.”

“It’s just a stand in,” Tim mumbles.

This can’t be happening to him. Where is Bruce? Bruce will put a stop to this madness. Duke considers calling for him. It would be childish, but Duke is not above survival.

Stephanie marches up to Duke’s face. He can’t press any farther into the counter, but still Stephanie leans forward, eyes narrowed. Duke swallows.

Stephanie pokes a finger in his chest. “Who are you?”

“Uh…”

“Who,” she repeats, with more vehemence,  _ “are you?” _

“Duke Thomas.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“Signal?” he tries. He feels sweaty. Is it hot in here? He wants his ice cream. 

“Who. Are. You.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Cookie.”

“Good boy,” Jason praises.

Duek cracks one eye open, but snaps it shut when Stephanie retorts, “No! Look deep inside yourself, Duke! Who do you want to  _ be?” _

A guy eating fancy ice cream. But that dream is melting away like the carton on the counter. 

Stephanie sighs at his silence, and says, softer, “What kind of cookie are you?”

“I don’t...know?”

“Pick your favorite,” Dick suggests. “I like strawberry ones.”

“No one asked you, Dick,” Jason replies.

“But --”

“Mine’s chocolate chip,” Tim says. “But without the chocolate chips.”

“That’s who you are as a person,” Jason replies cheerily. “It’s a fucking chocolate chip cookie. Pick oatmeal raisin if you’re really going to be boring --”

“Oatmeal raisin,” Damian scoffs, “is  _ far  _ from boring. It’s a respectable cookie for respectable people --”

“Raisin people,” Dick moans. “Not the raisin people…”

“Oatmeal raisin is horse food,” Jason argues. “Or used as a sacrifice for demons. Oh, well, now that you mention it --”

“At least I’m not a  _ hooligan,”  _ Damian snaps, dragging out the last word. “Double chocolate chip is for narrow-minded swine who don’t trust their taste --”

“You know my favorite cookie?”

“I collect information on all my enemies.”

“What’s Bruce’s favorite? I bet it’s double chocolate chip. Also, I always took you for a snickerdoodle fuck.”

“I am not a snicker doodle f --”

_ “Shut up!”  _ Stephanie cries. Duke flinches. Maybe if he yelled for Superman, he would hear… “We have an  _ important matter  _ to attend to.” She puts her hands on both of Duke’s shoulders. “Tell us, honey. Tell us who you really are.”

Terrified. Duke is. Duke is terrified. And the Waynes are crowded around him like kids in front of a warm oven. “Um.”

“Louder, love,” Stephanie interrupts. “Let the world hear.”

“I guess I like those no-bake cookies?” he mumbles. Stephanie waits on him expectantly. “They have...chocolate. And peanut butter. And oats? They taste good? You put it all in a saucepan --”

“That’s it.” Stephanie throws her hands in the air and turns to the gathered Waynes like a priestess holding a religious ceremony. “He’s given me nothing to work with.” She looks over her shoulder, shaking her head sadly. “He will be Cookie forever.”

“Cookie,” Dick repeats.

“Cookie,” Jason repeats.

“Cookie,” Tim repeats.

Damian flicks his eyes to him. Duke pleads for mercy.

“Cookie,” Damian says curtly.

Duke hangs his head, as if defeated, and replies resignedly, “Cookie.”

Then he shoots his hands out for the damp ice cream carton and  _ runs.  _ The Waynes are shouting after him -- he hears Jason cry,  _ “No, Cookie! Your figure!”  _ and Dick and Tim yelling  _ “Cookie! Cookie! Cookie!”  _ at the top of their lungs. Stephanie is yodeling.

Duke half screams, half sobs as he lobs the ice cream carton behind him. 

He is Cookie. The Waynes are going to eat him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least they didn't make Duke do an interpretive dance. 
> 
> I don't know what's going on in y'all's lives at the moment but treat yourselves and one another like you're living in the dreamhouse my dudes but not like when Ken mcfuckin takes care of it Ken's a terrible house sitter he let the horse in


End file.
